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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29556675">I am not afraid</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse'>PenguinofProse</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a fluffy ending, Beauty and the Beast, Broken Bellamy, Cursed Clarke, East of the Sun and West of the Moon - Freeform, F/M, Fantasy AU, Pining, all the problematic myths, cupid and psyche, fairytale AU, problematic relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:08:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,305</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29556675</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Fantasy AU. Elements of beauty and the beast. Cursed Clarke and protective brother Bellamy and a whole heap of ridiculous fantasy angst.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>136</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I am not afraid</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Here's my first ever attempt at a fantasy AU! Huge thanks to Zou for betaing it. I am aware that the captor/captive trope is inherently problematic so please don't come at me for it in the comments thank you :)</p><p>Content notes: there are inherent consent problems here with the beauty and the beast-type captive trope, including some emotional blackmail in this case. There's also an implied but non-graphic abusive relative and a few non-graphic references to violence.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first time he sees the wolf, Bellamy is eleven years old, and he is not afraid.</p><p> </p><p>He's not <em> properly </em> afraid, anyway. Not afraid like he gets when the Norsemen come and he has to hide Octavia in her space beneath the floor. Not afraid like he gets when his stepfather is in one of his moods and fancies taking it out on Bellamy – as if it's his fault who his father is, as if he <em> chose </em> to be born on the wrong side of the blanket.</p><p> </p><p>But he is, perhaps, a little <em> nervous</em>. Wolves are dangerous enough at the best of times, and this is a wolf quite unlike any he has ever seen – big and blonde and with a frightening glitter of intelligence in its eyes. It's a wolf that could slay a whole village in the dark without anyone living long enough to raise the alarm, he thinks.</p><p> </p><p>But maybe it's also a wolf that would fight tooth and claw to protect its litter.</p><p> </p><p>He stands as still as he can, draws himself up to his full height. He's quite tall, for an eleven year old.</p><p> </p><p>Some good that will do him against a wolf.</p><p> </p><p>“I am not afraid.” He murmurs to himself, jaw tight, eyes wide. “I am not afraid. I am not afraid.”</p><p> </p><p>The wolf nods. It actually inclines its head as if it's <em> agreeing </em> with him.</p><p> </p><p>And then it turns to pad back into the trees.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>He kills a man for the first time not long later. It's anticlimactic, really. There are Norsemen in the village – again. One of them treads a little too close to Octavia's hiding place – again. And he's an old guy, grey and grizzled about the face, so Bellamy picks up the woodaxe and takes a swing at him.</p><p> </p><p>It feels good. It feels so good to watch the enemy fall, harmlessly dead, to the floor. It feels good to protect his sister, rather than sitting back and letting the Norsemen run rampant over the village.</p><p> </p><p>So he does it again.</p><p> </p><p>Woodaxe in hand, he creeps up on another older warrior, too slow to dodge him. Then another and another and three more.</p><p> </p><p>That night, when the Norsemen put back to sea, Bellamy asks his stepfather to teach him how to wield a sword.</p><p> </p><p>It's the first time Bellamy has ever seen the man look proud of him.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>He's good with a sword, it turns out. The raiders lose many men to Bellamy's keen blade in the years that follow – or perhaps more to his desperate desire to protect his sister.</p><p> </p><p>He sees the wolf, sometimes. He could swear it's the same one. Blonde is not a common colour for wolves in these parts, and those eyes are most unusual. One time, it even bounds right into the village when the Norsemen come and chases a handful of them back to their ship.</p><p> </p><p>Bellamy is not afraid of it, any more. He's not afraid of anything much except the darkness that lives inside of himself.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>He's pushing twenty when he realises he's lost something of his soul. When he sticks a young man, perhaps fourteen, right through the belly without a shred of remorse.</p><p> </p><p>He shouldn't have come raiding, should he, if he didn't want to die?</p><p> </p><p>But Bellamy knows in the back of his head that it's not like that. Family can make a young man do <em> anything </em>, more or less. This lad was probably not here by choice.</p><p> </p><p>Whatever. He's dead now, and it no longer matters.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>The wolf is back three days later.</p><p> </p><p>Bellamy wonders what's going on with that timing. He embraces the darkness, and three days later the strange demon that has haunted his adolescence comes calling. Is the wolf some kind of evil spirit? Some image of his soul gone walking?</p><p> </p><p>It's nothing of the kind, it turns out.</p><p> </p><p>“You're to go with this... animal.” His stepfather informs him.</p><p> </p><p>“I'm to do <em> what</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“This animal has requested your company. You're to follow it wherever it leads you. A short walk, it says.”</p><p> </p><p>“It says? <em> It says</em>? It's a wolf, Mr Blake.”</p><p> </p><p>“It brought a letter. The wolf will escort you to your destination.”</p><p> </p><p>“What in th -”</p><p> </p><p>“Please, Bellamy.” That's his mother, now, and the desperation in her voice takes the wind right out of his sails. “The letter promises protection for the village if you go – protection for your <em> sister</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Well, then. Why did she not start there? Obviously he must go.</p><p> </p><p>He packs his things. He doesn't have many things – a spare change of clothes, and one precious book of ancient myths. Should he take that with him? Will he be able to keep a book, where he's going? Or would his prize possession be safer left behind?</p><p> </p><p>He takes it with him, laid carefully at the bottom of his small pack. If he's to leave his family and the only life he has ever known, at least he will take stories with him.</p><p> </p><p>His sword sheath fastened at his waist, he heads for the door where the wolf stands waiting, watching. Can wolves <em> wait</em>? Do they think like that? This one does – Bellamy is certain of it.</p><p> </p><p>It growls, when he approaches. He freezes, startled. It's never done that before.</p><p> </p><p>He is not afraid. Honestly, he isn't. But he is perhaps just a little apprehensive.</p><p> </p><p>The wolf draws closer – slow, eyes looking right up into his. It's as if the creature is trying not to startle him, he thinks. It pads right up to him, starts nosing at the hilt of his sword with a low growl.</p><p> </p><p>“What is it?” He asks, puzzled. “You don't like the sword?” Perhaps it makes him crazy, that he is attempting to hold a one-sided conversation with a wolf. But it's not the most crazy thing that's going on here, he decides – he's about to leave home because a wolf gave his mother and stepfather a <em> letter</em>.</p><p> </p><p>The wolf growls louder, takes the sword hilt in its jaws and starts shaking its head.</p><p> </p><p>“OK. OK, let me get that.” He says, patting it vaguely on the head in what he hopes is a calming motion.</p><p> </p><p>He's petting a <em> wolf</em>. A wild beast. He's fairly sure that's a terrible idea. But the wolf draws back and waits, patient, watchful.</p><p> </p><p>He draws his sword. The wolf gives an odd sort of <em> nod </em> with its head then gestures towards the door of the house. The message is plain – the sword is not to come with them.</p><p> </p><p>This is madness. He's to follow a beast out into the unknown without even a weapon in his hand?</p><p> </p><p>But he has to protect his sister.</p><p> </p><p>That decides it. He removes his scabbard, sets sheath and sword on the threshold of the only home he has ever known.</p><p> </p><p>And when the wolf pads off into the trees, he follows.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>By late afternoon, Bellamy is beginning to realise that <em> a short walk </em> was an understatement – or perhaps even an outright lie. Maybe this is a short walk to a wolf, he wonders. But he's a fit and healthy young man and he's about dead on his feet, here.</p><p> </p><p>It's almost as if the wolf can sense that, he thinks. It draws close to his side, all reassuring warmth and soft pelt. He's seen this beast chase down raiders before now, but in this moment she seems like a creature of peace more than anything else.</p><p> </p><p>Sorry – <em> it</em>. He doesn't know why he's started thinking of it as a <em> she</em>. There's just something feminine about the eyes, he thinks – some combination of softness and steel that reminds him of myths he has read about warrior maidens.</p><p> </p><p>But he's being silly. This is an animal, pure and simple. An intelligent wolf, perhaps, but a wolf all the same.</p><p> </p><p>“Are we close?” He asks. Not because he's afraid – he isn't scared of a long walk. But because he's only human, damn it, and he'll need to stop for the night if their destination is much further.</p><p> </p><p>The wolf nods. It really can understand him, he decides. It nods and gestures with its head along the path.</p><p> </p><p><em> Close. Just this way</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Sure enough, the trees start to thin out not long later. And as the trees thin they give way to a patch of meadow, and then to formal gardens, and then to frankly the most obnoxiously large house Bellamy has ever seen. <em> House</em>? No, that's not the right word. It looks more like a palace, or the kind of castle he has read about in his stories.</p><p> </p><p>“Are we heading in there?” He asks, awed – awed, but not afraid.</p><p> </p><p>Another nod. Then the wolf is still, its head cocked up at him, considering.</p><p> </p><p>“Who lives here?”</p><p> </p><p>Silence. Stillness. No response.</p><p> </p><p>Bellamy shakes himself, starts walking. The gravel drive feels long, the wolf padding quietly at his side. He climbs the front steps, pushes at the large, ornate doors.</p><p> </p><p>They swing straight open beneath his hands.</p><p> </p><p>No one lives here. That much is obvious, the moment he is inside. Perhaps it should have been evident even before, from the dark windows, from the way no one ran to meet them. But now he is inside it is plain as day.</p><p> </p><p>There is simply no one here. Not a living soul. No sound of distant laughter, approaching footsteps, fleeting voices. Candles flicker in the entrance hall, but he is struck at once by the certainty that no mortal hand lit them.</p><p> </p><p>The wolf is still at his side. No – now it has pulled a little in front, leading towards a grand staircase with an ornate banister that has seen better days.</p><p> </p><p>Well, then. It looks like he was wrong. It's not that <em> no one </em> lives here – it's that no one <em> human </em> lives here. Because this beast evidently could not be more at home.</p><p> </p><p>He forces himself to follow. This is a strange experience, but he is not afraid. He's here to protect his sister – he must remember that. He can follow a wolf into a strange house if that is the way to keep Octavia safe.</p><p> </p><p>The wolf takes him to a door, nudges it open with its muzzle. Bellamy enters to find a large bedroom. There are upholstered chairs, a small writing desk, even a selection of books stacked on a bedside table alongside a lamp.</p><p> </p><p>And the bed? The bed is enormous. It's covered in rich quilts and fluffy furs. He's never seen anything so outrageously luxurious.</p><p> </p><p>“My room?” He asks.</p><p> </p><p>The wolf nods. It even gestures, most pointedly, to the bedside table with the books.</p><p> </p><p>He looks closer at it. He has learnt, by now, that this creature gives most intelligent instructions. Sure enough, the stack of books looks fascinating to him – some myths from far off lands, some tales from closer to home. He takes his own precious book from his backpack and adds it to the pile. He understands. This is not just his bedroom in a general sense – this specific bedside table, this pillow, this side of the bed, have been set up to welcome him to his new home.</p><p> </p><p>He never knew wolves had a flair for hospitality. He's beginning to realise that there's something very strange indeed going on here.</p><p> </p><p>He sets his pack down on the bed. Should he unpack his few spare clothes now, perhaps?</p><p> </p><p>No. The wolf is already heading towards the door again, throwing a glance back over her shoulder as she pleads with him to follow.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>The evening is surprisingly normal, given the vastly abnormal circumstances.</p><p> </p><p>They eat, first of all – or rather, Bellamy sits at the dining table to eat while the wolf looks on, watching carefully. The food is plain but plentiful, and for the first time in his life he gets to eat as much as he wants without worrying about his sister going hungry as a consequence. It's a very welcome change, especially after a long day on his feet.</p><p> </p><p>They tour the palace, after that. There are more rooms than Bellamy thinks he could possibly make use of - all richly furnished, but looking rather unloved and thick with dust. The library is fascinating to him, but beyond that he's rather out of his depth. There is a music room, but he can play no instrument. There's a room for painting and making art, filled with canvases that appear to be half-finished. It’s the first room that looks like it sees regular use, he notes. He sincerely hopes that this wolf is not expecting him to make any progress with the paintings, because he hasn't a clue where he would start. They all seem to be scenes that are related, somehow – the figure of a young woman with blonde hair in various forests and hillsides and battlefields.</p><p> </p><p>When he has been shown more rooms than he knows how to understand, the wolf leads him back to his room. Funny, Bellamy notes, how it is already starting to feel like home. Compared to that long trek through a forest and then protracted tour of a dimly-lit, draughty castle, this cozy room and the books chosen for his enjoyment already feel immensely comfortable and welcoming and familiar.</p><p> </p><p>He sits on the edge of the bed, starts unlacing his boots.</p><p> </p><p>The wolf nods, approving, and turns to leave.</p><p> </p><p>“Wait!” All at once, he finds that he is not ready to be left totally alone in unfamiliar territory – even in the most comfortable room of his new home. “Will I see you tomorrow? Will you still be here in the morning?” If this creature leaves, he will be left in absolute isolation.</p><p> </p><p>She nods, eyes bright. And then she pads slowly from the room.</p><p> </p><p>Bellamy rushes through his evening routine, if only for something to do. Something to keep him occupied and stop the loneliness from rushing in on him, now the wolf has left him to his own thoughts. He finds a nightshirt in one of the chests, hurries to change into it. If this is to be his room, he may make use of the clothes, surely?</p><p> </p><p>He settles into the bed, makes a start on choosing a book to read by lamplight. The new books do look fascinating to him, but tonight he needs the comfort of home, he decides. He picks up the book he brought with him and sinks into the familiar tales.</p><p> </p><p>Or – he <em> tries </em> to. He can't quite do it. He cannot quite let go and focus on nothing but the words. The nagging loneliness and the strangeness of his situation are always there, preying at the edges of his concentration.</p><p> </p><p>He's annoyed about that. He's always been very proud of his reading ability – he's one of the few in his village back home that have mastered the art. So why can he not string the familiar words together tonight?</p><p> </p><p>Even the stories have deserted him.</p><p> </p><p>That's a silly thought. His family have not <em> deserted </em> him. He's just doing the right thing by them, keeping them safe.</p><p> </p><p>He abandons his book. He sets it on the bedside cabinet, turns out the lamp. He lies looking up at the ceiling and tries very hard not to cry.</p><p> </p><p>It's a lost cause.</p><p> </p><p>That's another thing he's frustrated about, really. He's a brave young man. One of the best warriors in the village. He shouldn't be <em> crying </em> just about spending some time away from home. Young men leave home – it's a normal part of life. He would have done it sooner or later, when he took a wife.</p><p> </p><p>It's just that he always imagined moving to the other end of the village, not a day's hike away through the forest.</p><p> </p><p>He stops staring at the ceiling. It's clearly not doing him any good. He turns, instead, and rolls onto his side. He cannot quite pick out the shape of that stack of books in the darkness - it truly is pitch black in here. But he can visualise them all the same, and that makes him feel a little better. Someone here cares about him enough to try to make him feel welcome. He's not totally alone – he thinks it must be that wolf. A strange creature, but they're learning how to understand each other.</p><p> </p><p>He is not afraid.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't hear the door open. He doesn't hear footsteps, either. His first clue that he's not alone is the sound of short, nervous breaths somewhere just behind him.</p><p> </p><p>How odd. Must be the wolf, to have moved that quietly. But the breathing sounds almost <em> human </em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Who are -?”</p><p> </p><p>He never finishes the question. He cuts himself off abruptly when he feels the mattress sink behind him, feels a tug at the blankets from the other side of the bed.</p><p> </p><p>He freezes. This is new, and yet another strange thing about this strange place. He's starting to put the puzzle pieces together now, he thinks, but too much is happening at once and he cannot quite keep up with it. Not to mention, he's struggling to think straight when he's this upset and scared.</p><p> </p><p>Sorry – <em> nervous</em>. He is not afraid.</p><p> </p><p>He lets out a low sob. It sounds like failure, he thinks. It sounds like he has let himself down and failed to be a man. His stepfather would be so angry with him for this.</p><p> </p><p>Whoever it is who is on the other side of the bed, he feels them shuffle closer. He can still hear them breathing, short, sharp breaths as if they're wondering what to do.</p><p> </p><p>All at once, a hesitant hand is reaching out for him. Careful fingers are skimming his side, over the top of his nightgown. He relaxes slightly, enjoying the human contact. It feels good to be less alone. His mysterious bedmate seems to read his reaction, shuffles ever closer. There's an arm tucked right round his waist, now, and a body pressed firmly up behind him.</p><p> </p><p>It comes to him, all at once, in a dizzying rush. He can feel the press of breasts against his back, soft curves and a small, strong hand resting at his waist. He thinks of the wolf-like silence with which she entered the room, ties that together with the portraits in the art room.</p><p> </p><p>She's one and the same. The wolf, the bedmate, the young warrior in the paintings. The other living being in this deathly silent palace.</p><p> </p><p>“You could have told me.” He mutters. “Could have written me a letter, too.”</p><p> </p><p>She goes still. He places a hand over hers, trying to show her he really doesn't mind her presence. That he's more frustrated with the situation than truly annoyed at her. He cannot afford to be annoyed with her, if she is his only companion, and if she has it in her power to keep his sister safe.</p><p> </p><p>Not to mention – he doesn't <em> want </em> to be annoyed with her. Apart from taking him away from his family, she has always been decent to him. She helped him out with those Norsemen when he was younger. She prepared books for his arrival, made him welcome as best as she could.</p><p> </p><p>He feels safe with her.</p><p> </p><p>“I couldn't.” She whispers through the darkness, her breath tickling the back of his neck.</p><p> </p><p>He nods, biting his lip, tears cooling on his cheek. She couldn't. There's something complicated at work here, he supposes. Some twisted magic or complex curse.</p><p> </p><p>“I'm sorry.” She murmurs now.</p><p> </p><p>He considers that for a moment. She's <em> sorry</em>. Sorry for what? For taking him away from home? For keeping him ignorant of his circumstances? For the fact that she cannot tell him more?</p><p> </p><p>It doesn't matter, he decides. He thinks of that young Norseman he gutted, of the realisation that darkness is eating away at him. Of the way anyone could be driven to strange things by family or circumstances.</p><p> </p><p>“I forgive you.” He says simply. He doesn't see a lot of sense in doing otherwise.</p><p> </p><p>And for a cursed beast, she really does give good hugs.</p><p> </p><p>She sighs out a long sigh. He feels her relax slightly against him, curling ever closer. He starts rubbing her hand with his thumb absently for something to do. He's not ready to sleep just yet, between the tears and the tension, but he senses that his new companion is not the talkative type.</p><p> </p><p>“I meant to wait until you were asleep. But when I heard you crying...” She trails off uselessly.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Meant to</em>?” He queries, curious.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t talk about it. I might – things could go wrong. I'm sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>He nods. So maybe she <em> is </em> the talkative type, but unable to talk about their situation - because of whatever magic binds her, he can only presume.</p><p> </p><p>There's just one problem with that, he thinks, as he feels himself relax and start to slip towards sleep.</p><p> </p><p>They have nothing else to talk about. What else do they have in common besides their imprisonment in this time and place?</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>She's gone by the time Bellamy wakes up the next morning. He's not surprised, because he does remember her saying she was supposed to wait until he was asleep. He guesses that not spending time together awake must be some part of this messy situation she will not talk about.</p><p> </p><p>All the same, he is disappointed. He never even got chance to ask her name.</p><p> </p><p>He finds her waiting outside the door, back to her blonde wolf form again. She's curled up on the floor, apparently taking a nap.</p><p> </p><p>He tries not to wake her, tiptoeing carefully. Maybe he can find the dining room without help, this morning?</p><p> </p><p>She wakes up anyway, ears pricking, jumping at once to her toes.</p><p> </p><p>“You wouldn't need to nap if you stayed in bed long enough for me to say good morning.” He grouses, with a vague attempt at humour.</p><p> </p><p>She flashes him a cautious grin, teeth bared, eyes bright.</p><p> </p><p>He likes that. He likes making her laugh – or as close as a wolf can get. And it seems she is to be his only friend in this place, so he decides he wants to make it happen again.</p><p> </p><p>“It's a big place you've got here. What are you, some kind of princess?”</p><p> </p><p>Another slight grin, but duller this time. Well, then. Looks like maybe he hit a nerve, got close to the mark.</p><p> </p><p>She starts leading the way down the hall for breakfast.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>Bellamy is almost ready to doze off standing up by the time he falls into bed that night. It feels like he's had a long day, learning his way around the palace and getting to know his new home. It's tiring in a different way from spending a whole day fishing or farming or fighting back at the village. This has been more emotionally exhausting, the combination of concentration and homesickness stacking up against him.</p><p> </p><p>But all the same, he is determined to stay awake long enough to ask his companion her name.</p><p> </p><p>He remembers what she said last night, about waiting until he was asleep. So it is that, tonight, he turns out the lamps and stretches out on his side, then takes careful, long breaths. He hopes they sound like gentle snoring.</p><p> </p><p>He feels himself start to doze off for real, at one point. He tries desperately to keep his hold on consciousness, fisting his hands beneath the blankets until his nails bite slightly at his palms.</p><p> </p><p>At last, the mattress sinks behind him. She really does tread lightly, this mysterious woman.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn't come to hug him, tonight. He's disappointed about that – she gives good hugs, and the hope of some human contact has been keeping him going all day. But he supposes he shouldn't <em> expect </em> a hug. He's clearly here as part of some deal or arrangement to protect his village, and he supposes that hugs are not necessarily part of such a bargain.</p><p> </p><p>He takes deep breaths and prepares to ask his question, still facing away from her. He’s not sure whether he’s allowed to turn and face her, honestly. He hasn’t the first clue how this curse of hers works. But based on the secrecy, the darkness, the way she wanted to wait for him to be asleep last night, he presumes he’s not supposed to see or know too much.</p><p> </p><p>It would all be a lot simpler if only she would speak about these unspoken rules, he muses. But he senses that is a battle for another time. He’ll start small, today.</p><p> </p><p>“What's your name?” He asks softly.</p><p> </p><p>He hears her gasp a sharp breath. “I thought you were asleep.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know. What's your name?” He presses, undeterred. “You don't want me to call you <em> Princess </em>for as long as I'm here?”</p><p> </p><p>“I shouldn't -”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Princess</em>. Your name.” He insists firmly.</p><p> </p><p>He hears her swallow loudly. “They call me Wanheda.” <em> Wanheda. </em>The Commander of Death.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn't ask for a title. I asked for your <em> name</em>. Please, Princess.” He begs, voice growing damp. “If I am to be stuck here away from everything I have ever known, at least let me have the name of the one living being I share this place with.”</p><p> </p><p>He hears her swallow. Suck in a loud breath. Let it out as a long, heartfelt sigh.</p><p> </p><p>“My name is Clarke. But no one has called me that for quite some time.”</p><p> </p><p>He nods, satisfied. He'll have to see what he can do to make up for that.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>He starts bright and early the next day, the very second he steps out of their bedroom and finds her curled up at the threshold.</p><p> </p><p>“Morning, Clarke. What's for breakfast?”</p><p> </p><p>She likes that. She's not grinning, or laughing, or whatever she did yesterday. She's simply <em> glowing</em>, eyes bright with emotion at the sound of her name.</p><p> </p><p>So he tries again later.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Clarke. I think I might spend some time in the library today. You want to join me, Clarke?”</p><p> </p><p>And again at bedtime.</p><p> </p><p>“Clarke. You know I can just pretend to be asleep. There's no point waiting until you think I'm asleep. I'll just turn the light out and promise not to cause trouble and then you can come in and get some sleep.” Heaven knows she looks like she could use it, from the way she's always napping at the door in the mornings.</p><p> </p><p>She nods, resigned.</p><p> </p><p>“Great. See you in a minute, Clarke.”</p><p> </p><p>He won't <em> see </em> her at all, of course. But the sentiment is spot on, he feels.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>They make a routine of it, as the days tumble past them. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. <em> Clarke </em> this, <em> Clarke </em> that. She really likes it when he uses her name – he can tell. He gets the impression it makes her feel more human, even when she is wearing her wolfish face. And he certainly likes reminding himself that there is another person here with him, even if she is sometimes a most unusual person.</p><p> </p><p>The other crucial part of their peaceful arrangement? He causes no trouble.</p><p> </p><p>That's essential, the way he sees it. By tolerating this strange magic and stranger situation, he is somehow protecting his sister. So he asks no difficult questions, when Clarke comes to bed at night – neither about what has happened to land them both here, nor about why she has not so much as <em> touched </em> him since the hug that first night. Nor does he make loud emotional scenes about his frustration and homesickness.</p><p> </p><p>That's hard for him, though, because he's always been an emotional sort of guy.</p><p> </p><p>So when he snaps, one night, it is hardly a surprise. He suspects he's been heading this way for quite some time. And really, this is the last straw. He's actually had a very lovely day with Clarke – they spent most of it reading in the library. He had the bright idea of asking whether she could still read in wolf form, and getting a book down for her, and helping her turn the pages, and honestly she seemed <em> thrilled </em> about it. Overjoyed and genuinely touched, all at once.</p><p> </p><p>Yes, he can read this particular wolf's moods quite well. What of it? He's been in her sole company for weeks now. He was bound to get to know her.</p><p> </p><p>The point is, he thought a lovely day like this might <em> mean </em> something. That they're both making the best of a bad situation. That, perhaps, there would be hugs and real conversation tonight as Clarke assumed her human form.</p><p> </p><p>But no such thing happens. She lies, silent, a polite distance away on her side of the bed. She doesn't so much as wish him <em> good night</em>.</p><p> </p><p>All at once, he cannot bear it any longer.</p><p> </p><p>“So is this it? Is this how I am to live for the rest of my life? In silence? Trapped here? While you will tell me <em> nothing</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“I'm sorry.” She says. But it's not heartfelt like her normal apologies, somehow. It sounds cold and distant, as if she is holding back tears or the truth – or perhaps both.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Please </em> , Clarke. Just tell me <em> something</em>. Today I thought perhaps we were understanding each other. But now I find that I was mistaken.”</p><p> </p><p>“No. No, Bellamy – I thought that too. I'm sorry. I don't know what to say.”</p><p> </p><p>He takes a steadying breath. She just called him <em> Bellamy</em>. He doesn't know why that should surprise him – she obviously did her research before leading him away from his family. But it's the first time he's heard his own name said out loud since he left home. It returns to him a sense of <em> self </em> that he didn't know he was missing.</p><p> </p><p>He takes another breath. He is not afraid. He can do this.</p><p> </p><p>“If you can't tell me more about what has happened to you, and how I'm involved, could you tell me more about you? Could you tell me more about how you became Wanheda and what darkness lies in your past?”</p><p> </p><p>“No. I'm sorry. I don’t think I can. But – I can show you. All those paintings in the studio?”</p><p> </p><p>He nods to himself. So those are scenes from true stories, then. He did wonder.</p><p> </p><p>“Could you paint more? To show me more about your curse, perhaps?”</p><p> </p><p>She snorts out a humourless laugh. “I planned to. When I made arrangements for you to come here, I planned to work on my paintings while you were falling asleep each night. But that has not left me so much time to make art as I expected. I seem to have adopted the habit of following you straight to bed.” She swallows loudly. “I like to be here with you. I like to check you're doing alright after – after that first night.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yet you never hold me like you did that first time.” He hears the words come out of his mouth, quite without his permission.</p><p> </p><p>She's silent for a moment. He wonders if he sounded too pathetic for words, too feeble. He is supposed to be a warrior, is he not?</p><p> </p><p>When she does speak up again, her words surprise him.</p><p> </p><p>“I never know whether I should. I think sometimes that you like my company – but then I remind myself that it is my fault you have no other company. I thought you liked that hug, that first night – but it was my fault you were weeping. And I know – I have been lonely for a long time. It would be easy – but wrong – for me to convince myself to take advantage of you to soothe my loneliness.”</p><p> </p><p>He's only partly thinking of Clarke, when he answers. Only partly of his sister, too. Mostly he has to admit he's thinking of that young lad he gutted on the darkest day of his life.</p><p> </p><p>“We all make mistakes.” He swallows, tries again. “Not mistakes, perhaps. Things that we did for our own reasons, with the best of intentions, but that hurt people. Right and wrong are not such clear-cut opposites, in my experience.”</p><p> </p><p>She makes a humming noise that he takes for agreement.</p><p> </p><p>“You're right.” He continues robustly. “I have no other company. You have made me weep before now. But you are the only comfort I have.” He admits, voice shaking. “And I did like that hug.”</p><p> </p><p>She's there, all at once. She's wrapping an arm tight around his waist, pressing her body close up against his. It's as if she's been desperately craving this just as much as he has, he muses.</p><p> </p><p>He hears Clarke suck in a breath, and he thinks he knows what that means. She's about to say something that's difficult for her, and he imagines it will be something about her past or their present.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, it seems, she wishes to talk about the future.</p><p> </p><p>“You can go home, if you want.”</p><p> </p><p>He freezes, shocked. “What do you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“You can go home. If this is upsetting you. If you don't like it here. If you miss your family. I won't stop you if you want to leave. I'll escort you back to your village.”</p><p> </p><p>He frowns. Why is she suddenly saying this? She needs him here to break this curse of hers, as far as he has been able to piece together. She hasn’t <em> told </em> him as much, but that’s the only explanation he can see for his presence and her behaviour.</p><p> </p><p>“Clarke? What's going on?”</p><p> </p><p>“I just want you to feel like you have a choice.” She mutters, hugging him harder. “I'm sorry. I've – I've been here before.” She admits.</p><p> </p><p>Huh. That doesn't surprise him, somehow. She has brought other people here before? And yet the curse remains unbroken? That's a tough turn of affairs, he muses.</p><p> </p><p>“Octavia is protected as long as I stay?” He checks.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Of course. The deal stands just as I made it with your parents.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then I stay.”</p><p> </p><p>It's not because this bedroom – and Clarke's arms – are starting to feel like home. It's not because he feels a tangle of fascination and sympathy for this woman who as good as negotiated his kidnapping. He knows he only feels drawn to her because he's stuck with her – he's read tales of similar situations before now. It's nothing to do with the way she chose books for him, or laughs at his poor jokes, or has just tried to offer him his freedom despite what it would cost her.</p><p> </p><p>It's because of his sister's safety. Solely that. As long as Octavia is protected, this is his only choice.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>They settle into something that is almost a comfortable routine, after that. They spend most of their time in the library, by day. As they lie cuddled together at night they talk about the books they have read. That's a straightforward topic of conversation that does not tread too closely to the curse. Bellamy learns how to make Clarke laugh, and he finds in turn that she has something of a gift for making him smile.</p><p> </p><p>But he's only here to protect his sister, of course.</p><p> </p><p>The only uncomfortable part of this comfortable routine? Bellamy can't quite snuff out the part of him that burns for Clarke in the darkness. The silly attraction to her. It's just because he's stuck here with her, he tries to tell himself.</p><p> </p><p>But he knows it's not only that. He knows it's the determined spirit with which she has taken her curse on the chin. He knows it's the compassion she shows, despite keeping him captive. It's truly messy, that he thinks so highly of her character when he is essentially here as her prisoner.</p><p> </p><p>It's not just her personality, of course. He's seen the paintings. If she's even half as beautiful as that, she must be stunning. And he's felt her curves press against him in the darkness, has tried so hard not to imagine cupping her breasts in his hands. Sometimes he has to physically restrain himself, trap his hand under the pillow, to stop himself reaching out to explore her face with his fingertips and getting a sense of the shape of her smile.</p><p> </p><p>He's totally screwed.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>He decides to simply embrace it, in the end.</p><p> </p><p>He's a confident young man, isn't he? He is not afraid. He’s not afraid of Norsemen nor wolves, and he's most certainly not afraid of propositioning his friend and bedmate.</p><p> </p><p>He does not put his nightshirt on, tonight. He crawls beneath the sheets stark naked, rolls so his back faces the door as always. He doesn't know why he still sticks to that part of the ritual – perhaps he is afraid of catching Clarke's silhouette against the open door and bringing some terrible fate down upon them both. If only she could tell him what the rules are, he muses, they might both live a simpler life.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn't keep him waiting long. She slips into bed, as quiet as ever, and scoots close to rest a hand on his waist.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't want to waste a second longer. He rolls over, reaches for her in the darkness. And then he leans in for a kiss. He goes slowly, his hand on her cheek to guide his way. He doesn't want to make a mess of this and miss her lips. Goodness knows their situation is complicated enough without a blunder in the bedroom to add to the pyre.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing?” Clarke's voice surprises him, quiet and breathy.</p><p> </p><p>“Kissing you. Bedding you, if you'll have me.”</p><p> </p><p>She starts to scuttle away from him across the mattress. Well, then. So much for that. He thought she had feelings of some sort for him, too. But apparently he misread her. Apparently rotting in this castle with her is messing with his social skills, or something.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.” He begins at once. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't -”</p><p> </p><p>“No.” She cuts him off, firm. “I'm the one who should be sorry. You don't have to sleep with me, Bellamy. That's not part of the curse or the deal or any of this. I'm sorry if I gave you the impression -”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.” He bites out, firm. “I know it's not part of the deal. That's not why I'm suggesting it. I'm suggesting it because you're beautiful and we're both lonely and I thought maybe this could be good.”</p><p> </p><p>She's quiet for a long time. And when she does speak again, she does not choose the words he might have expected.</p><p> </p><p>“You can't say I'm beautiful. You've never seen me.” She says, and she sounds <em> small</em>. He doesn't like it. If there is one thing he has learnt about Clarke, in the months they have shared this draughty castle, it is that she has a big spirit, a large personality.</p><p> </p><p>He laughs. He can't help it. He lets out a relieved chuckle. Of all the arguments he was expecting, he was certainly not anticipating <em> this</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> can </em> say you're beautiful. I've seen your portraits. I know you're a good artist so the beauty I see there must be true.” He dares to reach out and stroke her face once more. “I know you're beautiful because I feel you in my arms every night. Because I can feel the shape of your lips beneath my fingers.” He tells her, tracing her mouth with the pad of his thumb. “Most of all, I know you're beautiful on the inside. I know you still think of yourself as the Commander of Death, Clarke. But that's not what I see when I think of you. I think of a woman who's been handed a set of terrible circumstances and is doing her best to do the right thing.”</p><p> </p><p>She's crying now, weeping softly, tears damp beneath his fingertips. He didn't intend for that to happen, but he supposes it's no surprise. He might have got a bit carried away, there, with spilling his heart to her. But that's just how he is. He wasn't about to lie there and let this chance to make them both a little happier slip through his fingers.</p><p> </p><p>“Can I kiss you?” She asks, softly, damply. “Would that be OK?”</p><p> </p><p>“It sounds perfect.” He tells her without missing a beat.</p><p> </p><p>It <em> is </em> perfect. Her lips press against his and dear god it <em> is </em> perfect. It's the most perfect thing he's ever known, he's pretty sure, and amidst so much imperfection that rather takes him by surprise. He lies there, stunned, for a good couple of seconds, simply absorbed in kissing her back and feeling the gentle pressure of her lips against his.</p><p> </p><p>He knew he was lonely, but he didn't realise <em> how </em> lonely until this.</p><p> </p><p>He gets over his shock gradually, tentatively starts taking things a little further. He's had a few lovers back in the village, and he more or less knows what he's doing. But he's never made love slowly, leisurely, on a big soft bed in a cursed castle before now.</p><p> </p><p>The hand which was resting on Clarke's cheek he sweeps down, over her neck and shoulders, to pull her tight against him at her waist. He deepens the kiss, allows it to get a little more urgent. She responds in kind, with curious lips, with her hand stroking over his bare back.</p><p> </p><p>“You're naked.” She states – rather unnecessarily, he thinks. He knows full well that he's naked. He can feel every inch of his skin pressing against her through her thin nightgown, can feel his cock growing hard and nudging at her soft curves.</p><p> </p><p>He makes a sort of humming noise. “I am.”</p><p> </p><p>“Would you – should I be?” She asks, nervous.</p><p> </p><p>He laughs against her lips. “That depends, Clarke. You want me to make you feel good? You want me to touch you?” He asks, skimming a hand across her breast over the top of the flimsy nightgown.</p><p> </p><p>She answers that by pulling away from him. It's difficult to tell in the dark, but he thinks the sounds he hears are her pulling the nightgown over her head then throwing it to the floor behind her. Sure enough, within seconds she is back in his arms, stark naked.</p><p> </p><p>It's a lot. It's even better than he thought it would be, her soft skin all warm beneath his fingers. And she's so sensitive, craving his touch. He goes to cup her breast gently and all of a sudden she's pushing her chest firmly into his hand.</p><p> </p><p>“That's good.” She tells him, already growing breathless.</p><p> </p><p>He grins to himself, makes a mess of the next kiss. Perhaps he is not the only one who has been burning up, here. Perhaps he was not alone in having something of an interest in his bedmate.</p><p> </p><p>They've wasted enough time. That's what he decides. Time to waste no more. Time to get on with bringing each other a little joy.</p><p> </p><p>He flips her over, hovers above her, kissing her deeply all the while. Clarke is already one step ahead of him, it feels like. She's already palming at his butt as if urging him to get going. He finds himself smiling into the kiss all over again at that. This is more like the woman he thinks he knows from the paintings, he muses – determined, ready to take on the world. Confident. Not like the more apologetic Clarke he has mostly known since she brought him here.</p><p> </p><p>He takes her hint. He eases inside of her, starts building up a rhythm as he rocks his hips. And again, now, Clarke is more than a match for him. She's bucking her hips up to meet him, making little squeaking noises in her pleasure.</p><p> </p><p>He decides to make it even better for her. He reaches for her breast again, skims a thumb over one nipple. She seemed very sensitive to his touches, earlier.</p><p> </p><p>She does not disappoint. She fully <em> groans </em> as he makes contact, tries to arch her chest up into him, too. She's half-risen off the bed to meet him, now.</p><p> </p><p>He wishes he could see what she looks like, in this moment. He wishes he could see her golden hair falling around her shoulders and onto the pillow. He wishes he could see the light in her blue eyes. He'll never see her grimacing in pleasure, he thinks, and even in the midst of all this ecstasy it hits him as a truly sad thought.</p><p> </p><p>He pushes it aside. Clarke is still reaching up for him, greedy, taking more. Kissing him hungrily, tugging him closer with her hands.</p><p> </p><p>“I like this side of you. Like it when you show me what you want.” He murmurs, half teasing, half deadly serious.</p><p> </p><p>She falters a little. She goes still, as if suddenly self-conscious.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean it.” He reiterates, breathless. “It's so hot. You seem so... confident. Can just imagine the look on your face right now.”</p><p> </p><p>She huffs out a strained laugh – but she gets back to pulling him closer again, too. Gets back to twitching her hips towards him, thrusting her breast right into his hand.</p><p> </p><p>She comes not long after. She's not subtle about it, either – she goes perfectly still beneath his touch, then suddenly she's twitching up into his hands even as she clenches around his cock.</p><p> </p><p>He wonders how long it is since she felt this way. Centuries, perhaps, if his guesses about her situation are anything to go by.</p><p> </p><p>He's done for, then. That's the bittersweet feeling that pushes him over the edge. His affection for her, in her brokenness – the way they help each other feel whole. And a fierce kind of pride at doing something utterly right for once in his life. No one's ever acted like this towards him before – as if he is her entire world.</p><p> </p><p>He falls apart, hips shuddering, eyes fluttering. He wishes she could see his face, right now. He wishes she could see how good she makes him feel – not just good in this purely physical sense, but good about himself, too.</p><p> </p><p>He slumps on top of her, when he's done. She holds him tight, hands rubbing over the bare skin of his back. He likes it. He feels safe and cherished and good.</p><p> </p><p>“I'm guessing this wasn't part of the curse?” He says, half a tease to break the tension as they lie here in the aftermath, but half a serious question.</p><p> </p><p>She grunts. He can't tell whether that's <em> yes </em> or <em> no</em>. More likely, he suspects, it is a plea to leave well enough alone. He wonders whether it was a mistake to ask any question at all. Has he ruined this almost perfect moment?</p><p> </p><p>No. He hasn't. She's still stroking her hands over his back, still holding him close.</p><p> </p><p>He thinks he'd like to keep lying here quite a while, if that's OK with her.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>The next morning she's a wolf again. Of course she is – that's how this works. But he's disappointed all the same. He can't sneak kisses in the library with a wolf. He feels weird enough about making love with a human who spends half her time wearing the skin of a wolf, now he's being confronted with it in the cold light of day.</p><p> </p><p>He does his best to put a brave face on it, for her sake.</p><p> </p><p>“Morning, Princess.” He tries for a tease.</p><p> </p><p>She grins at him, but he thinks she looks a little tense.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, Clarke. We're good. Where's my brave Princess from last night, huh? Don't tell me you're nervous.”</p><p> </p><p>She draws herself up slightly higher, spine straightening.</p><p> </p><p>“There we go. Let's get some breakfast then head to the library. And I've got a few plans for tonight once you've got your Princess face back on.” He tries to pass it off as a joke, but he means it, too. He's got enough plans to keep them going for a good few nights yet, he believes.</p><p> </p><p>She gives a low growl of approval, flicks her tail a little, and trots off down the hall towards breakfast.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>They never bother being awkward about it again.</p><p> </p><p>It's miraculous, really, that they manage to keep so calm and matter-of-fact about sleeping together when she spends half her time as a wolf. They even joke about it during the day when she's in her furry form – or rather, Bellamy jokes about it, and she laughs along. Somehow, he thinks, it just doesn't feel like enough of an issue to get awkward about. In the face of his troubled childhood and her disastrous past, the fact he's fast falling in love with a woman cursed to spend her daylight hours as a wolf just doesn't even feel like a disaster.</p><p> </p><p>Something about the intimacy of sleeping together each night bleeds over into the daytime, too. There's a comfortable kind of friendship between them now, even if Bellamy is the only one saying actual words. He's got pretty good at reading Clarke in this form.</p><p> </p><p>It's a funny business. He wonders if he would be able to read her human face half so well. As a woman, does she screw her nose up when she's slightly exasperated, but also laughing at him? Does she do that half smile with the tilted lips but the sad eyes in her human form too?</p><p> </p><p>He really wishes he could find out, one day.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>The best thing about this new shift in their relationship? Clarke is blossoming. She's growing ever more confident, and Bellamy feels privileged to see it.</p><p> </p><p>He supposes he's experiencing something similar, too. It has been good for him to feel so genuinely wanted and appreciated. Clarke puts him <em> first</em>, which is not something he has ever experienced in his life before.</p><p> </p><p>It's also not something he ever expected from his <em> kidnapper</em>, but he's just going to have to be OK with that.</p><p> </p><p>He likes it. He likes learning how to ask for what he wants. He likes not having to do disgusting deeds for the sake of protecting other people. He's been here six months, now, by his count, and with every day that passes he thinks less and less about that young man he killed to protect his village. His people. His sister.</p><p> </p><p>“Something on your mind?” Clarke asks, as she slips into the bed at his side. She's got as good at reading him in the dark as he has at understanding her, these days.</p><p> </p><p>“Just – it's good to live a peaceful life.” He admits. “I know this isn't perfect. But at least I'm not fighting all the damn time.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods against his chest as she reaches in for a hug. “I understand. That's actually – that's why I asked your family to give you up <em> now</em>. I could see you learning to live with a sword in your hand and I didn't want that for you.”</p><p> </p><p>He swallows. She never talks about what he's doing here. That's the closest she's come to giving him an insight into her thought process <em> ever</em>, he thinks.</p><p> </p><p>“That's why you asked <em> now</em>? You had a different time in mind? You were going to wait longer but still take me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Something like that.” She agrees, short.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't push it. That probably treads too close to the curse, he fears. He simply hugs Clarke close and presses a kiss to the top of her head.</p><p> </p><p>“We can just go to sleep if you want.” She offers softly.</p><p> </p><p>He snorts. “When have I ever wanted that?”</p><p> </p><p>She laughs. “I'm just offering. We can go to sleep or I could try something else.” She suggests, teasing, her fingers starting to trail over his bare chest.</p><p> </p><p>“What did you have in mind?” He asks, making a great show of considering his options.</p><p> </p><p>“Lie still on your back for me.” She whispers in his ear.</p><p> </p><p>He nods, silent, although he knows she cannot see him. Perhaps she can hear him, or feel him – or maybe she knows him well enough by now to simply sense that he is agreeing.</p><p> </p><p>He's scarcely had chance to draw breath before she is slinging her leg over his hips and straddling him. He grins. He likes it like this. He loves having her confident and demanding above him. It's partly because he's really into the idea of her taking charge. But it's largely because he knows taking the lead is a core part of her personality, and he's happy for her that she seems to be regaining her confidence in that regard, in recent weeks.</p><p> </p><p>She bends over, kisses him hotly, deeply. She's forcing his head right into the soft pillow and he likes it. He likes the way she makes him feel wanted and special. As if kissing him is worth getting excited about.</p><p> </p><p>He reaches for her, tangles his hands in her hair. He'd love to be able to see this, one day. He'd love to be able to see her hair twisted around his fingers, the contrast between blonde and brown. Maybe he should ask her, one of these days, whether the curse will ever break. Whether there is a chance for them, beyond this time and place.</p><p> </p><p>He stops thinking about that. He thinks only about kissing Clarke, trying to make her feel as special as he feels beneath her touch. He reaches for her breasts, lets them fall heavily into his hands. They spill over his palms, too much and yet just right.</p><p> </p><p>She pulls back from the kiss, and he releases her hair to let her go. He knows what's coming next. She sinks down onto the length of his cock, starts riding him hard. She always takes it quickly in this position, but that's no bad thing. He can't last long, either, when she's making him feel so thoroughly undone.</p><p> </p><p>He really wishes he could see this, too. He wishes he could see her hair flying as she moves, her breasts bouncing, her head thrown back. He reaches up to trace the lines of her face, feels her press a sloppy kiss to his palm. She's half-smiling, half-grimacing, the creases around her mouth standing out beneath his fingertips.</p><p> </p><p>“Feels so good.” He pants out, desperate. “Love it when you take me like this.”</p><p> </p><p>He hears her gasp, feels another sloppy kiss on his palm. He lets his hand fall away, takes it to her breast instead. He wants to make her feel good, wants to coax her over the edge.</p><p> </p><p>She's bending over him, now. She's moving a little slower as she reaches down to kiss him soundly. It's a lot, all at once – her lips against his, as well as the way she's working his cock and her breasts are pressing into his chest. It feels so perfect. And then it gets even better, as she starts stroking a few stray curls back from his forehead and tangling her hands in his hair.</p><p> </p><p>He gasps, chest shuddering, feels her hardened nipples rub against his skin. No one has ever made him feel like this before.</p><p> </p><p>Like he's the best thing in her life.</p><p> </p><p>That's what sends him hurtling, headlong, over the edge. He's coming hard, bucking his hips up against her, groaning loudly into her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>He's disappointed with himself, just for a moment. Just for half a heartbeat he's ashamed that he broke first, that he's not done a good job for her. That she might be disappointed.</p><p> </p><p>But then she's there, too, pulsing around his cock before it has so much as started to soften inside her. It's a long one, her hands tense on his shoulders as she rides out the last of it.</p><p> </p><p>Good god, but he <em> really </em> wishes he could see the look on her face right now.</p><p> </p><p>She sinks over him in a sort of hug when she's done, wrapping her arms around his neck and pushing her face into his curls. It feels somehow <em> protective </em>, to have her tucked up on top of him like this.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe that's why he feels comfortable asking the question. The way he sees it, she's giving him a bit of a clue that she feels something for him beyond convenience. So he doesn't feel so bad about asking a transparently sentimental question in return.</p><p> </p><p>“Could you paint us?” He asks softly.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean – a picture of us, together. I never get to see you when we're together.” He says, throat thick with emotion. “I just want to see what we'd look like side-by-side. I know I'm taller than you – but how much taller? And what shape do your lips make when you're laughing at one of my bad jokes? What – what face do you pull when you're riding me like that?” He dares to ask.</p><p> </p><p>She's silent for a moment. He wonders whether what he just asked crosses some kind of line, or whether he has upset her, perhaps.</p><p> </p><p>“If I start, I don't think I'll be able to stop.” She warns him. “I want to show you <em> everything</em>. I want to picture us having a lazy afternoon in the library together as well as painting sex in every position you can imagine.”</p><p> </p><p>He laughs, turns to press a kiss against her ear. Her ear is right there, so it seems like a good move. “I'm not complaining, Clarke. That sounds good to me. Just make sure you get enough sleep.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can take naps during wolf time.” She says, dismissive. “Being a human is a lot more fun.”</p><p> </p><p>“Take care of yourself.” He repeats, firm.</p><p> </p><p>She's not listening. She's already climbing off him and scooting towards the side of the bed, urgent.</p><p> </p><p>“Clarke? What are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“I'm going to start painting.”</p><p> </p><p>He laughs, reaches out to tug her back towards him by the hand. “Later. Tomorrow. Or get up early. But I'm not falling asleep without you.”</p><p> </p><p>She makes no objection to that at all. Rather, as she crawls into his arms, he finds that his chest grows damp with a small burst of silent tears.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>They become slightly nocturnal, after that. They adopt a dysfunctional routine where Clarke paints late into the night, and Bellamy stays up late reading, and puts his lamp out when he hears her steps in the hall outside. He never tries to push his luck on that one, however tempting it is. He knows the curse is not to be messed with. And then they make love, and then they sleep in late the following morning – Clarke, of course, always rising to nap outside when she feels her fur fill in. She's careful to keep that line between them, and he loves her for it. He loves her for making this difficult situation as easy as she possibly can.</p><p> </p><p>The paintings she produces are simply beautiful. Bellamy wastes many of his daylight hours in simply staring at them. Clarke is as good as her word – she does paint plenty of snapshots of their sex life, and he loves to be able to look at her face as she grimaces in pleasure.</p><p> </p><p>But to his surprise, those are not the paintings he loves the most. He loves the little scenes of everyday life, where they are lounging in the library together or walking the halls of the palace hand-in-hand.</p><p> </p><p>His favourite? Quite against his expectations, it's a little scene of them sitting at the dinner table together. They're both eating human food – bread and cheese, as it happens. They are leaning in towards each other, heads close together as if having a most intimate conversation. And between them, on the table, their hands are tightly clasped.</p><p> </p><p>He loves it. He can't get enough of it. It's everything he's fast realising he wants but can never have – a totally normal life, safe and comfortable and <em> uncursed</em>, sharing everyday joy with the woman he has fallen in love with.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>He never meant to fall in love with her. He fell in love with her messily, reluctantly, quite against his better judgement – not that his judgement was ever much use anyway, if his stepfather is to be believed. She has kept him prisoner, and yet she's also the only person in his life who has ever truly cared about him, he's pretty sure.</p><p> </p><p>That's a sorry state of affairs, isn't it?</p><p> </p><p>So that's why he's so hurt, when it all falls apart. Loving her was such a struggle in the first place – and he thought their struggles were <em> over</em>. He thought he had simply to embrace this half-life. He thought they were now ready to do their best to enjoy what precious little happiness they could, together.</p><p> </p><p>He thought wrong.</p><p> </p><p>“You could write a letter to your family.” She suggests, one night, as they lie curled together, sleepy and soppy from sex.</p><p> </p><p>He freezes. What on Earth does she mean? Surely he couldn't do that. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>“You could write to them. Go on, I'm sure they'd love to hear from you. Your mother can read as well, can't she? I'll deliver it for you. I'll take parchment and a pen so she can reply.” She suggests, audibly excited with her own brilliant idea.</p><p> </p><p>He is not so thrilled. “I could write a letter.” He repeats back, cold.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. You could, really.”</p><p> </p><p>“It took you that long to suggest that?” He asks, incredulous. “I've been here for eight months, by my reckoning, Clarke. <em> Eight months</em>. And you're only just now telling me I can write a letter to my family? I presumed it was impossible because of the curse.” He rants, pushing her away. He doesn't want to hold her any more, thank you very much.</p><p> </p><p>She gasps, audibly shocked. “Bellamy. Please. I'm sorry, but -”</p><p> </p><p>“Save it, Clarke.” He gets out of bed, starts reaching for a lamp. He's not going to light it in here, because furious or not, he doesn't want to mess with the curse. But he's going to need it where he's going.</p><p> </p><p>“Bellamy? Where are you -”</p><p> </p><p>“I'm going to write a letter. I'm going to write to my family. And tomorrow you're going to deliver it.” He states, permitting no disagreement.</p><p> </p><p>She whimpers a little, and he's annoyed about that. He's annoyed that even now she has the power to break him when she sounds sad.</p><p> </p><p>He marches out the room before he can turn back and pull her into his arms. He knows he has no self-respect – he fell in love with his captor, didn't he? But he is not so far gone that he will crawl back to her now.</p><p> </p><p>He makes it to the library. He writes his letter. It's not a very imaginative letter – just their assurance that he is physically well, and that although he misses them he is doing just fine. He insists twice over that he's doing the right thing, so long as they are protected.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't say much about his circumstances, in the end. He tries to tell himself that's out of fear for the curse, but he's not quite sure that's true. He thinks it might be because he's not ready to share the truth of his life with Clarke with them. It would feel strange. He knows his stepfather will hear the contents of this letter, and Bellamy isn't ready to tell that man that there is someone in this world who actually seems to quite like him, no matter who his father is.</p><p> </p><p>Someone who quite likes him, who is currently lying in their bed and <em> whimpering</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He snorts, concludes his letter with a few basic words. He's living in a castle, but not waited on hand and foot. The library is good at least. He doesn't have much company. These are not lies, but not quite the truth either. It's what he wants his family to hear.</p><p> </p><p>He seals his letter, takes it with him and leaves it right outside the threshold of the bedroom where he knows Clarke will find it in the morning. He puts out his lamp, opens the door and heads towards the bed. He's never tried to find it in absolute darkness before – that's usually her role, he thinks sadly.</p><p> </p><p>It's silent in here, except for a little light snoring.</p><p> </p><p>“Clarke?” He tries. Just to tell her about the letter, of course – not because he's worried about how upset she is, after their earlier argument.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn't answer. She must be sound asleep.</p><p> </p><p>He crawls into bed. That's when he realises it – there's empty space where his pillow should be. Nothing there except bare mattress. He casts around on the floor for it, starts patting down his side of the bed in the dark. Nothing. Nowhere. Is he to sleep without a pillow, on top of having such a miserable night?</p><p> </p><p>He figures it out at last, as he wriggles, trying to get comfortable, and catches Clarke lightly with his elbow.</p><p> </p><p>She's holding it. She's hugging his pillow tight against her, arms wrapped right around it, face pressed into the soft material.</p><p> </p><p>He sighs. Here's a complication he wasn't expecting. He tries to ease it away from her grasp without waking her. He can't face another conversation with her tonight. He manages it, more or less. She stirs a little and tries to latch onto his arm, and he hasn't the heart to shake her off.</p><p> </p><p>That's all that's going on here, he tells himself firmly. It's not because he's warmed by this evidence that she still wants to cling onto him, even when they are at odds.</p><p> </p><p>He places the pillow awkwardly beneath his head with his free hand. It's pretty damp, he notices. Soaked through, at one end, where she was holding it against her face.</p><p> </p><p>She fell asleep sobbing into his pillow. That's the only possible explanation, here. And he's annoyed about that, because she's absolutely the one in the wrong, here. She's the one who brought him here, even if she did give him a chance to leave. She's manipulating him with that deal about his sister's protection. And she's the one, now, who only just thought to allow him to write a letter home.</p><p> </p><p>But his pillow really is very cold and clammy against his skin, where she wept on it. And that kind of makes him want to cry, too.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>He wakes up the following morning with his pillow still damp. Damn it – Clarke really must have lost it, last night. Last time he couldn't stop crying she held him all night – he remembers that. It was the first night he spent in this place.</p><p> </p><p>Ugh. Damn her. Why did he have to fall in love with a monster?</p><p> </p><p>He dresses for the day slowly, expecting her to be long gone. He did insist she should take that letter right away, and she seemed inclined to agree with him.</p><p> </p><p>That's why he's so surprised to open the bedroom door to find a most familiar wolf pacing in the hallway.</p><p> </p><p>She looks terrible, he thinks. She's walking slowly, tail down, head sinking low. Her eyes just don't look right.</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you still here?” He asks, short.</p><p> </p><p>She pushes a letter towards him. No – <em> letter </em> might be too generous. It's simply a handful of lines on a page.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Bellamy </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I'm so sorry. If I could act differently, I would. I can't explain it all now – the sun is already half-risen. But I just had a thought and I needed to write to you. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You could come with me today. You could go home. I won't hold it against you, I swear. I'll keep you safe on the journey. If you want to go home after last night, I understand. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I'm so very sorry. I was thoughtless and selfish. You shouldn't be trapped here with a monster who treats you so shamefully. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Cla- </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She didn't finish her name. It's a silly thought, but that's the one that sticks with him, as he tries to re-read the letter but just ends up with his head twisted in knots. She was so desperate to write to him, so desperate to give him her blessing to return home, that she scribbled this down as the sun was creeping up on her and her skin was turning to fur.</p><p> </p><p>He wonders if it hurts, to change. He wants to ask her that, one day.</p><p> </p><p>“I could go home?” He murmurs. That's the point of this letter, isn't it?</p><p> </p><p>She nods, head still hanging low even as it bobs pathetically.</p><p> </p><p>“You mean – for a visit? To see them and then come back here with you?”</p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head, eyes frowning at him.</p><p> </p><p>He nods. He understands her, he thinks. “You mean I could go home forever. You mean giving up on you.” He swallows. “You mean giving up on breaking the curse and never seeing you again.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods, sadness in every line of her body.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, Clarke. You know me better than that.” He says, as light as he can, reaching out to ruffle her ears. It feels like an odd gesture, when he's her lover by night. But he's seen men in the village pet their dogs like that, and say that a dog is man's best friend. He figures it has to be better than doing nothing at all to show Clarke how much he cares.</p><p> </p><p>She looks up at him, curious.</p><p> </p><p>“I'm not going home.” He says firmly. “I'm angry. But if the deal still stands and my sister's still safe I'm staying right here.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods. She looks a little brighter, he thinks, but not much. He fishes around for something else to say – some way to show her that he's upset, that they're not jumping into bed tonight, but that he doesn't want to run out on her and leave her to her curse just because she didn't think to tell him he could write a letter.</p><p> </p><p>“Safe journey.” He says carefully, in the end. “Take care. Come home in one piece.”</p><p> </p><p>She's the one in the wrong. She's <em> often </em> the one in the wrong, he thinks, reflecting on those paintings of her earlier life as <em> Wanheda</em>. But she owns it like no one he has ever known. She admits to her mistakes, apologises, tries to do better. As best as he can tell, life has landed her in one difficult situation after another. And that's something he can relate to, because his story is not dissimilar.</p><p> </p><p>They'll figure it out. That's what he decides, as he watches her lope heavily down the hall.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe if they figure it out well enough, one day they can break that damn curse and have a happily ever after.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>He misses her, while she's gone.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't mean to, but it happens all the same. The library is too quiet without her padding on soft paws around him. The dining room is too loud, the noise of his chewing echoing off the walls.</p><p> </p><p>He takes himself to bed as soon as darkness falls. He can lie there and read until he hears her approach the door.</p><p> </p><p>He starts to worry about her, as the hour grows late. They made it here from his village in less than a day at his walking speed. In her wolf form, Clarke moves a lot faster than him. Why is she still out there? She must be wandering around on human legs by now, he fears. What if she faces some trouble and cannot defend herself without her teeth and claws?</p><p> </p><p>By the time he hears her footsteps outside the bedroom door, he's about ready to leap out of bed and seize her in his arms – whether to hug her in relief or shake her in frustration, he's not quite sure. But he forces himself to be still. If he charges out there and she happens to have a lamp lit, all this will be for nothing. His sister will no longer have that protection.</p><p> </p><p>Clarke's curse will endure.</p><p> </p><p>She opens the door, and somehow the words are tumbling from his mouth before he has consciously made the decision to speak first.</p><p> </p><p>“You were gone longer than I expected.”</p><p> </p><p>“I'm sorry. Your mother and sister wrote a very long letter. It's just here. I'll leave a lamp next to it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>He gets to his feet, flits past her in the dark. Behind him, he can hear her getting into bed, now. But he is preoccupied with heading straight for his precious letter. He hasn't had news from his family in nearly nine months. He rips the letter open, reads it urgently.</p><p> </p><p>It's a good letter, he supposes. Long, certainly. His mother writes at great length about all the village news. She reports a message from Octavia as well – his sister is flourishing and is being courted by a young woodsman. Bellamy thinks he is happy as he reads about his family, more or less. It's good that they're well, of course.</p><p> </p><p>It's just that he can't help but notice how self-absorbed this letter is. It's all news about <em> them</em>, and their concerns. He's glad of that, of course, because he loves them. And he understands that he did not exactly invite them to ask after him by being so reticent about the state of things here at the castle. But he finds that he is hurt all the same. Their lives have moved on without him, it seems.</p><p> </p><p>As if they never wanted him there.</p><p> </p><p>He pushes down the tears that threaten to intrude. He is not afraid. Not afraid of his sister growing up and growing out of her need for him. Not afraid of his mother moving on with her life and forgetting him.</p><p> </p><p>Not afraid of loving the monster who sleeps in his bed.</p><p> </p><p>He sighs. He knows he needs to go talk to Clarke. This letter has just proven to him, more than anything, that he belongs in this twisted situation with her far more than he belongs back in the village. This was always going to be difficult – the circumstances would not permit their relationship to be <em> easy</em>. He just needs to work through what went so wrong last night.</p><p> </p><p>He sets the letter down. He puts out the lamp. He eases the bedroom door open, edges slowly back to his side of the bed.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks for carrying the post.” He says, inadequate. He might be playing for time, just slightly, as he decides how to go about clearing the air.</p><p> </p><p>“You're welcome. Want me to take a reply in the morning?” She asks.</p><p> </p><p>He falters, just at the foot of the bed. He wasn't expecting that. Is she proposing to spend the whole of the rest of her life playing postal service? Is she saying she would do that for him?</p><p> </p><p>“I'm not going to be sending a reply right away.” He says, carefully casual. “There's not a lot to write, you know? They didn't ask me a lot of questions. I didn't want to say too much about life here.”</p><p> </p><p>She hums in acknowledgement. “Of course. Just – let me know when you want me to take the next letter, I guess.”</p><p> </p><p>He frowns, forces himself to get beneath the covers at last. “Clarke. You don't have to spend the rest of your life carrying letters for me.”</p><p> </p><p>“It wouldn't be the rest of my life.” She barely breathes the words.</p><p> </p><p>He bites his lip. He thinks he understands her implication. “The curse doesn't last forever, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“No. Well – it shouldn't. If we – yeah. It shouldn't.”</p><p> </p><p>“OK then. Thanks for telling me that.”</p><p> </p><p>“You're welcome. You're right – I've been keeping too many secrets from you. I should have been more open with you from the start. And I definitely should have suggested you write to them sooner. I've grown too used to keeping everything to myself.”</p><p> </p><p>“I get it. Curse.” He says flatly.</p><p> </p><p>“But that's no excuse for being so thoughtless. Josie was right to curse me. I <em> am </em> the bad guy. I get it now.”</p><p> </p><p>“That's not true.” He says, quiet but firm. “Right and wrong are not so different, remember?”</p><p> </p><p>She snorts out a humourless laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“You did the right thing this morning. You offered to take me home. And I chose to stay here – just like I chose last time you offered me a way out. I'm staying, Clarke.” Sure, it's complicated. He's still half-blackmailed by his sister's safety. But after reading that letter from home he's starting to realise he might be here for Clarke's curse as much as Octavia's protection.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks.” She says quietly, damply. He wonders whether he wants to give her a hug, now, or whether there is still more to be said.</p><p> </p><p>Silence falls. He lets it lie there, heavy, hesitant.</p><p> </p><p>At last, she speaks.</p><p> </p><p>“I was ready to give up, you know. Before I found you. I've been living this way for years. I've tried breaking the curse before. And when you look at me the way you looked at me this morning I wish I <em> had </em> given up. I hate hurting you. I would rather stay cursed than have you hate me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why me? What made you change your mind?” He asks. He cannot help himself.</p><p> </p><p>“Because you're brave.” She says at once. “Because you looked me in the eye that first time we met and you didn't flinch. I knew you'd be brave enough to live like this. Brave enough to live with a beast.”</p><p> </p><p>She swallows loudly. He reaches a tentative hand across the space in between them, squeezes her shoulder softly. He wants her to keep talking – <em> needs </em> it, even.</p><p> </p><p>“I knew you'd like the books, too.” She says, laughing damply. “I could just see you sitting in the library and never leaving. But most of all – I'd been watching you for years, Bellamy. Wondering whether you could be the one. So when I saw you start to lose your way and watched your thirst for killing take over, I knew I couldn't just leave you there. That's how I sold it to myself, in the end.” She gives a humourless chuckle. “I convinced myself I was saving you from turning into what I once was.”</p><p> </p><p>He considers her words. He can see where she's coming from, actually. He doesn't feel the bloodlust, when he's with Clarke. He feels calmer than he used to, back in the village.</p><p> </p><p>“I just wish I'd had some say in it.” He says softly. “If you'd walked up to me with a letter saying you were cursed and by the way you thought we could be good together, I'd have considered it. Honestly, Clarke, I would. You didn't need to go to my mother and my stepfather and <em> use </em> the thing about protecting Octavia. I'm happy she's safe, of course I am. But I hate the way you used that to box me in.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know. I get that now. I was scared, Bellamy. I've been stuck in this state for a long time. The other people I tried to break the curse with didn't work out. I always used to think of myself as such a tactical leader, back on the battlefield. But I did this <em> wrong</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence sits. He starts running his hand up and down her arm, stroking in what he hopes is a soothing motion.</p><p> </p><p>“Would you really have considered it? If a giant <em> wolf </em> gave you a letter saying she wanted you to move in, would you have even given it a moment's thought?”</p><p> </p><p>“I think so. I guess neither of us will ever know for sure.” He mutters, frustrated.</p><p> </p><p>“You and your big heart. Saving some stray wolf from her fate.” She muses.</p><p> </p><p>He smiles a little at that. He has to. Clarke always does make him smile.</p><p> </p><p>“You really should go.” She says now, voice shaking. “I don't get why you're still here. We've just agreed I got this all wrong and yet you're <em> still </em> the one trying to take care of me.”</p><p> </p><p>“You take care of me too.” He admits, rolling away onto his back and staring up at the ceiling he cannot see through the darkness. Even in the pitch black, he cannot have this conversation facing her. “You don't see it. However much you watched me all those years, you weren't actually inside my head. And you never came into the house and saw how things are with my family. I <em> like </em> being here, Clarke. I resent how I ended up here. But every step of the way since then you have treated me better than my family ever did. You have shown me you care about me like no one else ever has. <em> You put me first</em>.” He gets out past the lump in his throat. “I didn't know how much I needed that.”</p><p> </p><p>“OK.” She says softly. Just that.</p><p> </p><p>“OK?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. OK. I'll try to do better. I care about you too much to keep hurting you, Bellamy. So I'm going to try and start being more honest with you. We're going to talk about the curse and I'm going to say as much as I can. And if you still want to stay when I'm through, then I'll be the happiest cursed woman in the land.”</p><p> </p><p>He gives a grudging laugh. “I thought you couldn't tell me about it?”</p><p> </p><p>“I can't tell you everything. I can't <em> cheat </em> it. That was the condition. I guess I've held back from telling you any more because I'm scared. And because it's difficult for me to talk about. I've been keeping it to myself for a long time now.”</p><p> </p><p>He rolls back to face her, reaches for her on instinct. If they're going to have this difficult conversation, they will need to be holding each other, he believes. He hugs her tight against him, buries his face in her hair. It feels good to embrace her once again after twenty-four hellish hours at odds.</p><p> </p><p>“I don't want to be angry with you any more.” He mutters, shaky.</p><p> </p><p>She hugs him back hard, presses her face against his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“If it's difficult for you to talk about it, why don't I do the talking?” He suggests softly. “I can tell you what I've figured out. You can tell me whether I'm right or wrong.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods, her hair tickling his neck. “Just take care not to say anything that might count as cheating.” She tells him.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Of course.” He takes a deep breath. “You were cursed by an enemy. The <em> Josie </em> you mentioned just now, I'm guessing. She told you it was a punishment for the choices you made in war.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“She was wrong, Clarke. She was trying to make you hate yourself. She was trying to make you believe you <em> deserved </em> to be punished. To make you feel like you didn't deserve to be human. But war is messy. You did what you thought was right. I know that. <em> I know you.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>She squeezes him tight, presses a kiss to his neck. It's light and nervous, almost a question. “That wasn't about the curse, Bellamy.” She reminds him, tentatively teasing.</p><p> </p><p>“No. But it still needed to be said.” He presses a kiss to the crown of her head by way of response. She needs that, just now, he thinks – and he needs it too. “The curse is broken by having someone to live with you. I'm guessing there are conditions on that, and that's the kind of thing you can't tell me for fear of cheating?”</p><p> </p><p>“You're right.” She agrees at once.</p><p> </p><p>“OK. So I'm here to help you break the curse but you can't tell me what I have to do. I guess I just... stay here until I figure it out? Or until it becomes clear? Until something happens? Will I know when I've done the right thing?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. You're – you're doing great.” She tells him, audibly nervous.</p><p> </p><p>Silence sits, just for a moment. He's not sure what they're waiting for. For the sky to rain down on them, perhaps? For the world to end in a ball of fire?</p><p> </p><p>No such thing happens. Apparently telling him he's <em> doing great </em> does not constitute trying to cheat the dark magic that hangs around these halls.</p><p> </p><p>“You've tried to break the curse with other people before.” He murmurs now. “That's partly why you're so scared. What happened, Clarke?”</p><p> </p><p>“They left me.” She says shortly.</p><p> </p><p>“I'm sorry.” He says simply. Privately he thinks that they would be less likely to leave her if she'd been honest and upfront with them, too. But he's in no mood to be angry with her, after what they have just shared. He tries to push his exasperation to one side as he hugs her close.</p><p> </p><p>“You got it pretty much spot on.” Clarke murmurs now. “She trapped me in this cycle, in my wolf body. She said that was my punishment for all those deaths – to be lonely. To be trapped inside my own head as a wolf. To be trapped here, unlovable and alone.”</p><p> </p><p>He almost tells her she's wrong. He almost tells her she's <em> entirely </em> lovable, to him.</p><p> </p><p>But he doesn't. He doesn't say it, because he's still a little angry with himself for forgiving her so easily. It makes him feel pathetic, somehow, the way he rolls over and accepts her apologies.</p><p> </p><p>It's not what a real man would do, he fears. Not what his stepfather would want him to do – he of the strong sword and short temper.</p><p> </p><p>He can't figure it out. Not now, when he's tired, when they've had a long day, when this has been bitterly sad.</p><p> </p><p>All he knows is that he's in love, and he is a tiny bit afraid of that.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>The next morning, a wolf waits at his bedroom door. Not <em> outside </em> the door, but curled up just on the threshold, head resting on her paws, watching him. Keeping an eye on him while he rests.</p><p> </p><p>“I'm not going anywhere.” He tells her. He knows her well enough to know why she's there, thank you very much.</p><p> </p><p>She nods, smiles a wolfish smile.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, Clarke. Breakfast.”</p><p> </p><p>It's the same beginning as they have made every morning, more or less. And yet, today, it feels like a fresh start.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>Bellamy thinks they are doing quite well, as the next week passes by. They don't jump straight back into making love, and he thinks maybe that's for the best. They take a little more time to talk, to simply hold and touch and kiss. To make it clear to each other that they are together by <em> choice</em>, although the circumstances have conspired to give them very few other good options.</p><p> </p><p>He's decided there are worse only choices to have. There are worse impossible situations to face, than being stuck in a well-stocked library with the woman he loves – even if she does sometimes wear a wolfish face.</p><p> </p><p>He's still reeling from the words Clarke said that night, about choosing him for his bravery and love of books, as well as thinking she might be able to help him avoid the path of a mass-murderer. No one's ever chosen him for <em> anything </em> before now. And although they may not be the most romantic reasons to choose a life partner, he'll take it.</p><p> </p><p>It's the best deal life is going to offer him.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>When he wakes up and Clarke is not in the bed by his side, he does not bat an eyelid. Why would he? She's never here in the mornings. He always sleeps until the sun is well up. He wonders whether that is part of the magic of the place.</p><p> </p><p>He's a little surprised when she's not napping at the foot of the bed. That's where she's mostly been, these last few mornings. He's grown quite used to finding her there.</p><p> </p><p>He gets to his feet, throws on some clothes. Maybe she's in the library. Maybe she's in the art studio – she could have fallen asleep while working on one of her paintings. Yes, that's definitely the most likely explanation. She's been even more enthusiastic about painting sweet domestic scenes of them, this last week.</p><p> </p><p>She's not in the art studio. She's not in the library. She's not in any other room of the house, he realises, when he has searched everywhere for her. He has opened every last closet, searched even the dustiest of rooms long unused.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't know what to do. He simply has no idea what to try next. He heads for the front door, thinking to go search the gardens and woods.</p><p> </p><p>It won't budge. He pushes hard at the big wood panels but they do not move an inch. They're locked, and he knows without checking that they are locked by magic and not mechanism.</p><p> </p><p>He's stuck here. He's stuck here <em> without Clarke</em>. She's <em> left </em> him. Why would she leave him?</p><p> </p><p>He tries to stay calm. Maybe this is part of the curse – some test of his staying power, or something. Maybe this is how he breaks it for her. By sitting tight and waiting for her.</p><p> </p><p>Or maybe it's something more sinister than that, he fears. Maybe she's in trouble out there and he should be trying to help her.</p><p> </p><p>He can't lose Clarke.</p><p> </p><p>With that decided, he seeks another strategy. He heads for the dining room, picks up a heavy candlestick and tries to smash one of the windows that look out over the gardens.</p><p> </p><p>No luck. It simply bounces straight off the glass without leaving a mark. Something strange is definitely afoot, here. He tries again, pounds at the glass harder and ever harder.</p><p> </p><p>No luck.</p><p> </p><p>He abandons the candlestick, tries with his bare hands. He punches the glass with clenched fists, again and again and again. He can't be stuck here while Clarke could be in danger. He simply <em> can't </em>.</p><p> </p><p>He sobs loudly, hears the sound of it echo in the empty castle.</p><p> </p><p>He's alone.</p><p> </p><p>He is not afraid.</p><p> </p><p>What a lie – he's <em> terrified</em>. He's frightened of losing Clarke before they were ever truly together. Before he even got chance to see her face in the light of day. He's scared of losing that happy ending he was holding out hope for – the idea that they might be together as a normal couple when all this is through, and cherish those domestic moments at the dining table or in the library.</p><p> </p><p>He tries to think like Clarke would. Heaven knows he's terrible at it – too caught up in his emotions to be calm and logical like she would be. She wouldn't just leave him, he thinks. If this is part of the curse, she would give him some kind of clue.</p><p> </p><p>He gets back to searching the house. He tries the art studio, but she has not painted a message. She hasn't written anything in the library, either.</p><p> </p><p>He heads back to the bedroom – if only so he can cuddle her pillow whilst waiting frantically for news. He remembers her doing that, barely a week ago, when they were at odds. What a waste of time that seems now.</p><p> </p><p>He sees it, this time. He sees what he was rushing too much to see earlier. The books on his bedside cabinet are not neatly stacked. They've tumbled sideways, and pulled out from the stack is a most particular book.</p><p> </p><p>It's the book he brought from home.</p><p> </p><p>He can see it, now. He can make sense of it. He and Clarke have always had a talent for wordless communication. He can just imagine her, in her wolf form, getting some urgent summons back to his village, leaving this book from home as a message to him. As a wolf, she couldn't have done much else, he supposes. Or at least she couldn't have done much else <em> quickly.</em></p><p> </p><p>He wonders what's going on. What was so urgent? Is everyone safe? Is he to lose his sister and his lover on the same cruel day?</p><p> </p><p>In short, her little message does not leave him feeling much better.</p><p> </p><p>He tries very hard to distract himself for the rest of the day. He wants to read, but the words won't sink in. He wants to eat, but the food will not go down. He wants to admire Clarke's latest painting of the two of them, but it simply <em> hurts</em>, in this moment, to see a dream of a future they might not have.</p><p> </p><p>He gives up, in the end, and spends the day pacing.</p><p> </p><p>Day turns to night. He's almost <em> frantic</em>, now. Is she to stay away longer than just the one day? Has she turned back to her woman's form outside, and is she now stumbling, exhausted, through the dark forest?</p><p> </p><p>He keeps pacing. He has adopted quite a route, now – eight paces over the chequered tiles, turn by the suit of armour, back to the front door. He thinks he could -</p><p> </p><p>That's her. That's the door opening, Clarke stumbling through it.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't think twice. He simply dives straight towards her, desperate and messy, and throws his arms around her.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing?” She splutters, trying to pull away from him.</p><p> </p><p>Oh. Right. It's only then that it hits him.</p><p> </p><p>He's hugging her, eyes open, lamps lit. He loosens his arms, dazed, stands back to take her in. She's <em> stunning</em>. He knew that of course – he's touched her often enough, and seen her self-portraits too. But she's more dazzling than he ever realised she would be, here in dim lamplight and in the flesh. There's a brightness about her, a sense of vibrancy and energy that even her artistic talent cannot do justice to.</p><p> </p><p>She's also in a bad way. Her boots and shins are caked in mud. There's a long, bloody gash across one shoulder. And she's positively <em> fizzing </em> with anxiety and anger.</p><p> </p><p>“You can't be here.” She protests, casting about her as if a solution might walk down the corridor and shake her hand. “You can't see me, Bellamy. Everything we've done...”</p><p> </p><p>She trails off, helpless, broken. He feels simply awful, his heart lurching in his chest. What if he really has ruined it? What if his stupid heart has ruined <em> everything</em>? He was just desperate to see her and know she was OK, damn it. He should have made a better plan, just had one lamp and put it out the moment he heard the door move.</p><p> </p><p>He's let her down.</p><p> </p><p>“What will happen?” He asks, heavy. “Nothing seems to have happened yet.”</p><p> </p><p>“I'll be stuck as a wolf forever. I guess I'll change in the morning and stay that way.”</p><p> </p><p>“I'll stay with you.” He jumps to make the promise, all at once. “I swear it, Clarke. I'll still stay. We can still be friends.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles at him, sad. <em> Disappointed</em>. He doesn't blame her. How could they just be <em> friends</em>? The very idea is madness. There is no way that could be enough for either of them, after they have found their match in each other.</p><p> </p><p>“I'm so sorry.” He repeats, helpless.</p><p> </p><p>“It's OK. You didn't know.” She murmurs, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. “You were doing so well, Bellamy. But there's nothing to do about it now. We should just enjoy my last human night.” She visibly tries to pull herself together, and fails, crying ever harder.</p><p> </p><p>He steps forward, hugs her again. “Yeah. You're right. Let's make this good, OK? Let's end this as best we can. Let's at least enjoy being together for every last minute.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods, crying harder.</p><p> </p><p>He hesitates, debates the wisdom of saying the words that are on the tip of his tongue. He should just go for it, he decides. He's already ruined <em> everything</em>. What's the worst that can happen?</p><p> </p><p>He is not afraid.</p><p> </p><p>“What was I supposed to do, Clarke? How should I have broken it? I just – I need to know. And if I've ruined it I guess you can tell me now without cheating.” He says sadly.</p><p> </p><p>She nods, pulls back. She looks him right in the eye. Honestly, he thinks, if this is how their time together ends, at least they had this. At least he got to see her expressive face, got to see her looking at him with something a lot like love.</p><p> </p><p>“You had to stay with me for 2199 days.” She says simply.</p><p> </p><p>“Just that?” He asks, horrified. It sounds so devastatingly straightforward, now he's made such a mess of it.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Six years and seven days. Or until you fell in love with me – whichever happened sooner.” She adds, a throwaway comment on a strained laugh.</p><p> </p><p>He freezes. His hands go stock still on her arms. He really should clean that gash on her shoulder, he thinks absently, when they're done here.</p><p> </p><p>When they run out of revelations for the day.</p><p> </p><p>“Or until I fell in love with you?” He repeats, with painstaking care.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Something about seeing me as a person, even when I could only show myself to you as a monster. Josie thought there was some poetic justice to that clause.”</p><p> </p><p>He nods. He swallows. He frowns very carefully at that shoulder wound and decides that it will, most probably, not require stitches.</p><p> </p><p>And then he gathers his courage. He is not afraid.</p><p> </p><p>“Clarke. I think you might be OK. Because I've been in love with you for weeks.”</p><p> </p><p>“You have?” She asks, quiet – but hopeful, he thinks.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Or maybe more like <em> months. </em>But then why haven't we already broken the curse?” He asks, realising the flaw in his logic. So much for hope, he thinks, sour.</p><p> </p><p>“Because I have to know it. I have to <em> feel </em> loved. I have to feel human again.”</p><p> </p><p>“I haven't been making you feel that way?” He asks, sad.</p><p> </p><p>“No. Yes. I don't know.”</p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head, confused and skittish, not at all like the Clarke he is so familiar with. It's been a big day, he reminds himself, squeezing his hands on her arms just a little more firmly.</p><p> </p><p>“I hoped, sometimes.” She admits now. “I didn't dare believe it. How could you?”</p><p> </p><p>“It's been pretty easy.” He says, dry. “Falling in love with you has been by far the easiest part of this whole situation.”</p><p> </p><p>She laughs, a little hysterically. She throws herself into his chest, hugs him tight.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you too. I love you so much.” She babbles urgently. “I don't know if this will work. You saw me before I knew. Will that matter?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don't know.” He says, soft, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I have no idea how curses work, Clarke. I know how to read and wield a sword and love you, and I know precious little else. But I do know that it is very urgent that I make you feel loved, tonight. So I intend to take you for a bath and take a look at your shoulder and then take you to bed. Will that be OK, Princess?”</p><p> </p><p>“You know, I never have been a Princess. I know I live in this place but I was only ever a Commander and Councilwoman.” She argues, a little of her usual spirit returning to her.</p><p> </p><p><em> That's my Clarke</em>, he finds himself thinking. There she is, fighting to break through the fear of the day. He presses one last kiss to her forehead, scoops her up and starts carrying her to the stairs.</p><p> </p><p>He needs to convince her she's loved. He needs to do that well enough to balance out the fact he saw her before she learnt of his feelings. If he doesn't do this, he'll lose her forever.</p><p> </p><p>He has never been so afraid.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>They start with the bath.</p><p> </p><p>Or rather, Bellamy tries to start by preparing a bath for Clarke. But she insists that he will be joining her, and he's not about to say no to that. So it is that he finds himself sitting behind her in the tub, washing the grime from her face and bathing her shoulder wound tenderly.</p><p> </p><p>“What happened? Where were you?” He asks. Amidst all the drama of her curse he completely failed to ask about that.</p><p> </p><p>“At the village. Protecting your sister.” She says, as if it is obvious.</p><p> </p><p>“You meant you would protect the village <em> yourself</em>?” He asks.</p><p> </p><p>She nods, sinks a little deeper against him in the tub. “Yes. This is the first raid this year – they've been lucky. I have some magical wards set up to warn me when raiders approach. I tried not to hurt anyone – I thought an unusual wolf chasing them off would see to the problem well enough. But I must confess I took a chunk out of the guy who slashed my shoulder.”</p><p> </p><p>He sits silent for a moment, uncomfortable. He should have realised that the old deal revolved around Clarke putting herself in danger. That's just who she is, isn't it? He's learnt that by now.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn't kill him.” She assures him now, as if that might be the problem. “I'm not Wanheda any more, I swear it.”</p><p> </p><p>“That's not the problem.” He soothes at once, pressing a kiss to her neck. “I know that. I know you're not a monster. I'm just worried about you. My sister's safety is important but I don't want you putting yourself in danger.”</p><p> </p><p>She cranes her head to look at him, heart in her eyes. He's no fool – he matches her, swoops in for a searing kiss. He can never get enough of kissing Clarke.</p><p> </p><p>He pulls away after a moment, gets back to bathing her wounded shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“It looks shallow, thank goodness.” He offers.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. It'll be fine. I'll put some salve on it. I had some training as a surgeon, many years ago.” She tells him, light.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn't know that.” He says, although that surely ought to go without saying.</p><p> </p><p>“Now you do. I want us to know everything about each other by morning.” She insists, a little frantic.</p><p> </p><p>He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “We don't need to worry about the morning, Clarke. I won't lose you. Nothing is happening to you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bellamy. If I -”</p><p> </p><p>“Clarke, <em> please</em>. I love you. That's what it takes. I'll bring you back myself if I have to.”</p><p> </p><p>“How will you bring me back from turning into a wolf?” She says, almost teasing despite the dire circumstances.</p><p> </p><p>“I'll go away and learn sorcery. You'll see. I'd come back for you.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles sadly at him. “Hopefully it won't come to that.”</p><p> </p><p>“It won't. I'm sure of it.” He lies. “Come on, try to relax a little. Let me make you feel good.” He suggests, hand skimming over her bare breasts and stomach.</p><p> </p><p>She sinks even deeper into his arms. “You want to?”</p><p> </p><p><em> Yes</em>. <em> It might be the last time</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. We've never done it in the bath before.” Best present it as something new, he decides. A fresh beginning rather than a sad ending.</p><p> </p><p>“I'd like that.” She admits, guiding his hand between her legs.</p><p> </p><p>He gets to work. He knows what she likes, now, after the months they have spent together. He slips two fingers inside her, finds her already more than ready for him. It seems he is not the only one enjoying the novelty of taking a bath together.</p><p> </p><p>He coaxes a sigh out of her, starts moving a little quicker. He knows she likes a little pressure on her clit with the heel of his hand, so he angles for that now. With his free hand he takes one of her breasts and starts squeezing it lightly.</p><p> </p><p>“So good.” She sighs, soft in his arms.</p><p> </p><p>He swallows. He wants to cry, but that's silly. This is a happy time – a celebration of their love. He is determined not to be sad until the morning comes.</p><p> </p><p>Hopefully, he might not have to be sad then, either.</p><p> </p><p>He refocuses on his fingers, on Clarke's moans. She's bucking her hips up towards him, now. As ever, she cannot sit still and let someone else do the hard work. She's groaning louder, too, louder and louder with each minute that passes.</p><p> </p><p>It's a good job they have this large, echoing palace to themselves. They do not make love quietly, in his experience.</p><p> </p><p>Clarke comes hard, squeezing around his fingers. He loves using his hand for her because he loves to be able to feel her fall apart, loves the tremors against his skin. It's intimate in a different way to using his cock – not better or worse, but part of the whole glorious package of Clarke as a lover.</p><p> </p><p>She's barely down the other side before she's tugging at his hands and scrambling to get out of the bath.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on. We're going to bed.” She tells him brightly.</p><p> </p><p>“Your shoulder -”</p><p> </p><p>“Will be fine.” She cuts him off. “It's a shallow scratch. I want to make love with you. I want to show you how much I love you.” She insists.</p><p> </p><p>He almost tells her not to bother. He almost points out that she's been making him feel loved since he first arrived here – with the thoughtful gesture of books, with the way she makes him smile. With her repeated insistence that he could go home, if he wanted, even though it would cost her.</p><p> </p><p>Most of all, he thinks, she has been telling him with her eyes for almost as long as he's know her – even if he first saw those eyes in human form scarcely an hour ago. His Clarke is human to the core, no matter what her fur coat might sometimes suggest.</p><p> </p><p>“I'd like that.” He says simply, by way of response.</p><p> </p><p>He stands up, gets out of the tub. She picks up a towel, but she doesn't hand it to him – rather, she starts patting him dry, and he does the same for her. It's the silliest thing, but it has them both laughing and whispering love confessions to each other, all at once.</p><p> </p><p>Good god, but he hopes she is still here in the morning. He's not sure how he would survive without her, after this. He thinks he really would find himself heading off into the forest in search of some training in sorcery.</p><p> </p><p>They fall into bed together, more or less dry. Bellamy lies back on the bed, tugs Clarke on top of him. He's been waiting months to see how she would look sitting over him and making love to him. This might be his last chance, and he plans to make the most of it.</p><p> </p><p>She looks stunning, as it happens. He's half gone already, just from the bath and the sheer sight of her. He lets out a frankly embarrassing groan as she eases down onto his cock. It feels the same as always, more or less, but the added visual is really messing with his self-control.</p><p> </p><p>Clarke seems to be experiencing something similar.</p><p> </p><p>“You look so good, smiling up at me like that.” She tells him, a little shaky. “I always imagined you'd look like this. It's exactly the expression I used to imagine when we did this in the dark.”</p><p> </p><p>“You look even more beautiful than I expected.” He admits, hoarse. “You were too modest in those self-portraits.”</p><p> </p><p>She laughs, tries to bat the compliment away. He's not having that. He takes her hand, presses a kiss to her knuckles. Maybe that's silly, in the middle of lovemaking – more sentimental than sexy. But it fits the moment, he feels. He wants to show her that he means it, when he says he loves her.</p><p> </p><p>She gets there first.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you.” She tells him. “I love you more than I thought I could ever love anyone. More than I thought I <em> deserved </em> to love anyone.”</p><p> </p><p>“I love you so much. You deserve this and more.”</p><p> </p><p>She still looks unconvinced, but he supposes that's no surprise. The path they took to get here was a twisty one. If she's still with him in the morning, he plans to spend a lifetime working through that.</p><p> </p><p>She's moving a little quicker now, hips rocking urgently. He hears another groan ripped from his chest, wonders if she's maybe taking a little slither of his heart with it. Just the smallest piece that will stay with her forever, if they don't get their happily ever after.</p><p> </p><p>“Come kiss me.” He begs. He needs her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>She does. She bends, presses her lips to his so softly it makes him want to weep. It reminds him of their first kiss – all tenderness and longing.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn't kiss him for long. She sits back up again, tracing his lips with a finger as she goes.</p><p> </p><p>“We can kiss later. Want to watch you.” She huffs, breathless.</p><p> </p><p>He nods. He can agree to that. He drinks her in, breasts bouncing, hair streaming, eyes gazing at him like he's something precious.</p><p> </p><p>He falls apart. It's simply too much for him. He cries out her name, half warning, half praise. And then he's bucking his hips up off the bed even as she sits down harder into him, grinding against him, coming in turn.</p><p> </p><p>He's somewhat stunned, when it is over. As he lies there and smiles up at her and toys with a lock of her hair. They've had some good times in bed together, but this was something else.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you.” He reminds her.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you.” She echoes.</p><p> </p><p>A pause. A silence. Bellamy's cock is softening. Clarke twitches her hips, just a little, as if playing with him.</p><p> </p><p>“What now?” He asks.</p><p> </p><p>“Now we stay up all night.” She tells him brightly. “Now we kiss until we're ready to go again. Or until we feel tired and we just want to cuddle and talk. We just spend the night together. We make the most of every moment.”</p><p> </p><p>He nods, reaches out for her. That sounds perfect, and he wants to claim his kiss.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>They must have fallen asleep in the end. Bellamy realises that, all at once, as he wakes up.</p><p> </p><p>Light is streaming through the cracks in the curtains. His dull headache is telling him he didn't get more than a couple of hours' sleep.</p><p> </p><p>The woman lying in his arms, the blonde hair tickling his nose, is telling him that the curse is broken.</p><p> </p><p>He shakes her awake at once, all eagerness.</p><p> </p><p>“Clarke! Clarke, it worked!”</p><p> </p><p>She sits up, dazed. He watches her look down at her hands in fascination, turning them under the shaft of sunlight from the window. Of course – she hasn't seen <em> herself </em> in daylight for years, either.</p><p> </p><p>Then she grins broadly and bends to give him a rather thorough kiss.</p><p> </p><p>“What now?” He asks, when she pulls away at last. “What do you want to do to celebrate?”</p><p> </p><p>“You're free to go.” She says, voice tight.</p><p> </p><p>He frowns, mood souring abruptly. What the hell is she talking about? They love each other – that's why she's woken up wearing her own face this morning. Why the hell is she still trying to get him to leave her? He’s beginning to understand that her constantly offering him a way out is a reflection of the state of her head, rather than her heart. But all the same, it does get difficult not to take it personally.</p><p> </p><p>“You <em> should </em> go.” She amends. “Don't you see, Bellamy? I can't keep you here. It's not right. You fell in love with me after I coerced you. I can't keep -”</p><p> </p><p>“Will you <em> please </em> stop telling me to leave you?” He demands, tired. “That's four times now, Clarke. Was I not clear when I told you I love you?”</p><p> </p><p>“You love me <em> now</em>. When you're here with me. It must be confusing for you when we're together after everything I've done.”</p><p> </p><p>“Clarke. I don't <em> want </em> to leave. I would rather live here with you than with my family. You <em> chose </em> me. Just as I chose you.”</p><p> </p><p>“It doesn't count. It doesn't count as a choice when it was me or no one.”</p><p> </p><p>He nods heavily. He understands that – she doesn't want to be his only choice. And he knows her well enough to know that she will not easily let him win an argument.</p><p> </p><p>Then he'll just have to argue harder, damn it. He loves her. He's not about to lose her. Not now – not when she's just woken up at his side, safe and well and <em> uncursed </em>.</p><p> </p><p>She presses on before he can get his words in order. “Go home for a while. Please. Nine months – that's how long you've been here. If you still love me when you've had some space, then we'll try doing it properly. We'll live that normal life I painted.” She suggests, tears in her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“Clarke -”</p><p> </p><p>“Please. I'll spend the time getting the palace ready for you, trying to find my place in society again. Trying to make peace with myself. If you come back – <em> when </em> you come back – I'll feel like I deserve you. That will be better for both of us. To know that we really have chosen this.”</p><p> </p><p>He wants to tell her she's lost her mind. They can finally be together properly, and she wants them to live apart? It's madness.</p><p> </p><p>But he knows that she has healing to do. He knows that she is saying this not because she does not love him, but because she needs to learn how to love herself before they can live the life they have dreamed of.</p><p> </p><p>He sighs. He presses one last kiss to her lips. And then he packs his bag.</p><p> </p><p>….....</p><p> </p><p>He goes home, walking at Clarke's side. He watches the path carefully, because he needs to remember this route in nine months' time. He wonders how his family will feel on his return.</p><p> </p><p>“The village will still have my protection.” Clarke says. “I have some skill in sorcery. I'll set up wards.”</p><p> </p><p>“We're OK. Don't trouble yourself. I have my sword.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bellamy. I did not spend nine months trying to show you that you have value for you to fall back into living by your sword now.” She tells him, firm.</p><p> </p><p>He grins a little, reaches out to squeeze her hand. They'll be OK, the two of them. They have faced greater obstacles than nine months apart.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't last nine months, in the end. He lasts three weeks.</p><p> </p><p>Home is pleasant enough. His sister has missed him, but largely because she wants to tell him all her good news. His mother says it is good to have him home, and she seems to mean it genuinely. His stepfather is less trouble than usual, telling him that he has done his duty, and done it well.</p><p> </p><p>But he misses Clarke. He misses her so much it <em> hurts </em>, a nagging pain in his chest that will not go away.</p><p> </p><p>He seems to remember she made some compelling arguments, that last morning, about needing to learn how to love herself, needing to have faith that he loves her truly. But he's decided they are rubbish, now – or rather, his heart is pining for Clarke so strongly that he has decided he does not much mind whether they are rubbish or not.</p><p> </p><p>He just <em> wants </em> her. And for once in his life, he has it in his grasp to go after something he wants. To make his own life better, rather than worrying about others.</p><p> </p><p>Is it selfish of him to take it? Or is he simply coming to realise his own worth?</p><p> </p><p>She can learn how to love herself as well with him watching as without, he decides. She can make peace with herself while he’s there to help her wave the white flag when the burden grows too heavy. He won't intrude if she needs them to have separate beds for a while, or any such thing – although frankly he cannot imagine her suggesting anything of the kind. He just needs his best friend back, more than anything. The best friend he is also very much in love with. He simply wants someone to smile with, rather than the dull everyday stresses of the village.</p><p> </p><p>And what better proof that he loves her, than that he should come back eight months early?</p><p> </p><p>His mind is made up – or perhaps he is simply giving his emotions free reign. Either way, he packs his bag, says his goodbyes to his family. He tells them he might not see them so much in the future, but promises to write. He'll come to visit when Octavia marries her woodsman, if nothing else.</p><p> </p><p>And then he starts walking. He puts one foot in front of the other, hopes desperately that he is going the right way.</p><p> </p><p>It's a long walk. He's prepared for that.</p><p> </p><p>He is not afraid.</p><p> </p><p>…....</p><p> </p><p>It is fully dark by the time he arrives at the palace. He knocks on the big front door, hopes that Clarke can hear him. He suspects that maybe she has wards on the door, if nothing else.</p><p> </p><p>Seconds later, the door opens. But it is not Clarke who appears. Rather, it is a fresh-faced young maid.</p><p> </p><p>“Begging your pardon, sir. The mistress is in the studio. Who shall I say is calling?”</p><p> </p><p>He frowns. He wasn't quite expecting this. He peers past the maid, sees the entrance hall bathed in light. Above, a chandelier glitters. That's new.</p><p> </p><p>“I'll show myself up. I know the place quite well.” He says mildly.</p><p> </p><p>The maid blanches. “Are you Mr Blake, sir?”</p><p> </p><p>He laughs. “Definitely not. He's my stepfather. I go by Bellamy. No need for all this <em> sir </em> nonsense.”</p><p> </p><p>She giggles a little. “You're just like the mistress said you would be. She's like that too. I’ve really landed on my feet with this position. Do you want me to take your things up to the master bedroom?”</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks. That would be kind.” He's a little bemused by the news that Clarke employs a maid now, but he sees this as a chance to get the well-meaning girl to go away, if nothing else. If she's carrying his bag, she will not be listening in on his conversation with Clarke.</p><p> </p><p>He heads to the studio. The palace is looking rather different, he notes. There’s a lot more light and a lot less dust. He turns the corner at the top of the stairs and sees <em> flowers</em>. An actual vase of fresh spring flowers perched on a small table in the hall.</p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head, smiling quietly, and breaks into a run. He can take in the rest of Clarke’s home improvements later, but now he’s so close, he finds that he is increasingly desperate to see the woman herself.</p><p> </p><p>He slows down, treads more quietly when he is just outside the studio. The door is already open, thrown wide as if ready to welcome the world. Clarke is bent close over her easel and does not hear him approach. He watches her, smiling to himself, for a moment. She's stunning, of course, but she also looks <em> happy</em>.</p><p> </p><p>And she's painting an image of his face. That definitely helps the overall sense of love and homecoming, he thinks.</p><p> </p><p>He stands on the threshold, knocks quietly at the door frame.</p><p> </p><p>She spins on the spot, sees him, and drops her paintbrush with a resounding <em> splat</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Don't worry. We have a maid now. I'm sure she'll clean the rug.” He says mildly.</p><p> </p><p>Clarke blinks at him. “Yes. We do. I hope that's OK. A gardener and a cook, too. I'm trying to set the place to rights. And I've taken back my role as the local -”</p><p> </p><p>“Clarke. I don't care. I wasn't asking for an update on the household.” He swallows. “I'm here to tell you I won't wait any longer. You've spent years of your life living by deals and curses, Clarke. Don't you just want to be <em> free</em>? Don't you think it's time to move on and be <em> happy</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>She nods, urgent, tears spilling over. She starts walking towards him, one slow step at a time, as if she cannot quite believe this moment is real.</p><p> </p><p>He presses on. “You wanted some time to find peace and learn to love yourself. I can give you that. But I'm staying here while you figure things out. And as for proof I really love you? You don't need that, Clarke. You wouldn't have hired a maid and had a chandelier put in if you thought I wasn't coming home.” He teases brightly.</p><p> </p><p>She nods again, biting her lip, tearful and happy all at once. “You're right. I know. In my heart I knew you were coming back all along. I just needed some time for my head to catch up with everything that's happened. But I'm already getting there. As you say – I started fixing up the palace. I feel brighter now there's more light in the place, you know?”</p><p> </p><p>He nods. He can understand that. He always suspected she didn't much like to have light when she didn't like what she was seeing in the mirror, or the lonely emptiness she saw around her.</p><p> </p><p>“Can I kiss you?” He asks softly. “Or am I exiled to a spare room for the next eight months?”</p><p> </p><p>She laughs. “You can love me however you want.” She assures him, finally closing the distance between them. Finally trusting that this is real, he thinks, as he feels her arms come up around his neck to hug him.</p><p> </p><p>He holds her tight, presses his lips to hers. As he sinks into the kiss he thinks about her words.</p><p> </p><p>He plans to love her proudly, no matter her past. He plans to love her softly, too – she needs a little tenderness sometimes. He plans to love her constantly, even when she makes those fierce choices that sometimes render her difficult to love, just for a little while.</p><p> </p><p>He knows it won't always be easy. But with Clarke in his arms, he is not afraid.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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